


loved and were loved, and now we lie

by rakketyrivertam



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Feels, He/Him Pronouns for Jean Prouvaire, M/M, wearing each other's clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rakketyrivertam/pseuds/rakketyrivertam
Summary: Prouvaire wears something a bit more respectable than usual to the barricade.





	loved and were loved, and now we lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShitpostingfromtheBarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/gifts).

> Title is from In Flander's Fields, by John McCrae.

"Jehan."

The poet slumbered on.

"Jehan, it's nearly time."

A kiss was pressed to his temple, and he stirred most briefly. "I don't want to go," he murmured.

Combeferre pressed his forehead to his hair, nose brushing his ear. "I know. Don't think about it," he advised, bestowing another kiss. "Think about tomorrow instead."

"There are no guarantees."

"Jehan - "

Prouvaire rearranged his arms under his pillow. "I want to watch the sunrise. Please."

He felt his bedmate lay back down, felt him wrap an arm around his middle. "Alright."

They laid there an hour, until the sunlight reached the building across the street.

Prouvaire entreated Combeferre with kisses, begging him to stay, but he simply laughed and dodged away, slipping into shirt and trousers, shoes and waistcoat.

Jehan sighed and rose, searching through his lover's drawers.

"What are you looking for?" Combeferre asked, tugging on a fetching cap.

"I want to wear your things today," Prouvaire said, frowning.

"They'll be big on you."

"It's like you don't know me at all."

Combeferre frowned at Jehan's bitter tone and crossed the room to hold him. "What's the matter?"

Jehan burst into tears. "I don't want to watch our friends die. I don't want to find your body in the streets. But I even less want to live on without you all, so I must go with you. And if by some cruel trick of fate, I survive, yet you are killed and all your possessions taken, with family members who cannot possibly afford to buy them back, I want to have something of you."

Combeferre's face fell, and he nodded sternly. "Wear whatever you like," he said, striding to the outer room, which housed his desk and specimens. "I'll be back in a minute."

Jehan quickly dressed, still silently weeping. When he was finished, Combeferre reappeared and tucked a piece of paper in his pocket, accompanied by two kisses, first to his brow, and second to his lips.

"I case I fall first of us."

Jehan breathes out sharply and whirls around for ink and paper, scrawling a hasty poem on the blank off-white. "And in case it's me," he said, shoving it into Combeferre's coat.

The two held each other close.

"We're late," Combeferre finally said, drawing away. "Enjolras will have our heads." He stroked away Jehan's tears. "Are you ready?"

"No," Jehan said, "but I am coming."

* * *

The rest of the day flew by with the sound of screams and the reek of gunpowder, and it ended with the rough scratch of fabric over his eyes.

"Any last words?"

_I'm glad I didn't have to see them die. I'm glad I got to see the sunrise._

"Long live the Republ-!"

* * *

Combeferre walked away from the prisoner, trembling with every step. He fell to his knees in the most secluded spot he could find. He howled.

The piece of paper in his pocket was an afterthought, and when he unfolded it, he found the ink so smudged only the first and last lines were remotely readable.

_Je n'ai pas peur de la mort, seulement de mourir_  
_..._  
_Je suis seulement content de l'avoir passé avec toi_

He wept.

**Author's Note:**

> Jehan's poem translates to
> 
> _I have no fear of death, only of dying_  
_..._  
_I'm glad I got to spend it with you_
> 
> and the drawing Combeferre made for him was a sketch of a moth and forget-me-nots.


End file.
